


Dreaming of Greener Pastures

by Sylvennia



Category: Star Wars Legends: Republic Commando (Video Games), Star Wars Legends: Republic Commando Series - Karen Traviss
Genre: Bittersweet, Dreams vs. Reality, Dreamscapes, Gen, No Beta We Die Like Clones, Post-Order 66 (Star Wars), they just have weird dreams sometimes, very slightly force sensitive clones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-21 11:00:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30020754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sylvennia/pseuds/Sylvennia
Summary: (and different lives)You can't miss something you never had.
Kudos: 10





	Dreaming of Greener Pastures

**Author's Note:**

> This just hit me like a TRAIN when I was supposed to be doing hw (and isn't that just how it always goes).
> 
> And I'm totally on the train of "Jango less-Force-sensitive-than-a-rock Fett" but I also love the idea of troopers having a crumb of Force-sensitivity that lets them have weird dreams? Anyways. Thanks for stopping by!

Scorch had never seen Kyrimorut but if Sarge had shown them, he imagined it’d be something like the homestead standing in front of him. It was bustling with life; a flock of nunas roaming in the yard, pots clanging in the kitchen. Faceless people bustled about, busy with their duties. The early morning air was crisp, ushering in a cooler season and harsher elements.  
  


  
He jumped as someone walked straight through him.  
  


  
“Whoa,” he breathed, reaching for a nuna. His hand passed through its chunky body, unnoticed. “That’s weird.”  
  


  
But his feet were solidly on the ground, and the buildings still stopped his hand when he brushed past. _Just like a simulation_ , his mind whispered. _Right?_ _  
  
_

  
Well. Time to explore, then. Scorch poked his head into the main building, taking in the cozy, mismatched cushions and bright weaves decorating worn furniture. The floors creaked under his feet as he entered, enveloped with the smell of a wood-burning hearth and sharp spices.  
  


  
So warm¸ his mind rambled. The small medbay was well-stocked and empty of people, just the way the medics liked it. The storeroom was full, bags of ingredients assaulting his nose with a mixture of earthy and vegetal notes. The kitchen steamed; pots bubbling merrily on the stove, soft lumps of dough sitting on the counter, some rolled out to paper-thin sheets. Bundles of herbs and peppers and mushrooms were strung along a window, drying.  
  


  
He slipped through the kitchen’s side door, deeply inhaling the fresh air. Pots lined the entrance, meticulously covered with tents of transparent plastoid, protecting delicate leaves underneath. A pen of roba huffed grumpily from across the yard, nosing around piles of food scrap.  
  


  
A poke into a shack revealed walls lined with blasters, racks of explosives and other fun toys he’d never had a chance to play with. A smaller building sat behind it, resembling the main house. The shared space was more cramped; a pile of floor cushions stacked in the corner joined by a basket of worn blankets, dusted with short, gold strands of fur. Scorch plucked some off a cushion, rolling it between his fingers. He squinted.  
  


  
“A strill?” _A mistake,_ he thought instantly, feeling a strand stick to his tongue. He swiped at it uselessly before giving up, grimacing. “Ugh, gross.”  
  


  
A wander into a hallway revealed four prepared, but unoccupied bedrooms, refreshers joining them in pairs. Huh.  
  


  
“Who’s supposed to live here?” he muttered, retreating to the common area. One last hallway, a short branch to a single room. It felt odd, pushing open the door. It wasn’t somewhere he was supposed to be, but that never stopped him in the past. Datapads were stacked on the low table, accompanied by a half-empty mug of caf and a plate of crumbs.  
  


  
“Scorch?”  
  


  
Scorch whirled around, heart jumping into his throat, and who had managed to sneak up on him without even the slightest sound—  
  


  
“…Sarge?” he whispered. It was the black armor that gave him nightmares as a cadet, that same black armor that he looked for with the rest of his squad, that judgmental tilt of his t-visor which he’d grown used to. _Oh_ , he thought, the realization hitting him like a runaway speeder. _The rooms were for them_. The floor fell from under his feet, sending him into free fall, diving into an inky void. _And of course, it was just another sim.  
  
_

* * *

  
Scorch landed in his bed to someone shaking him gently and immediately groaned, burying his face into his pillow. Boss chuckled above him.  
  


  
“C’mon, up you get. You can catch up on your beauty sleep when we’re en route.” A pat landed on his shoulder before the edge of his cot rose, bringing with it disgustingly bright light as Boss left.

  
“Where we going?” Scorch begrudgingly rolled to sitting and yanked his armor on, the pieces still unfamiliar in his hands. The empire had tossed their armor after taking over, throwing out sets that held stories of survival in their paint and scratches and dents. He hated it. Boss and Fixer didn’t seem to care, but he knew better. They’d lost as much as he did.

(He’d always cared too much.)  
  


  
“We’re being sent to investigate a possible rebel post on the edge of Mandalorian space,” Boss said, pulling on his helmet. The enviro-seal hissed shut around his neck. “Let’s go.”  
  


  
“Yessir.” Scorch followed him and Fixer out of their quarters, thankful to leave the white on white on gray behind, their fourth squad mate trailing silently at the tail of the pack. Delta had been civil with him, the puzzle piece that didn’t click correctly with the rest of them. It wasn’t his fault. But it was still awkward, fitting an unfamiliar person into their established dynamics.  
  


Their ship had been overhauled as well, not that they’d done any nose art in the first place. Any trace of them was scrubbed clean, like snow over a battlefield. Inevitable. Unstoppable. A ~~dirty~~ clean slate.

  
Fixer dropped into the seat next to him on Delta’s freighter, knocking their elbows together.

“Was it a good dream?” he asked. Scorch shrugged. It was weird, that was for sure. He said as much, fiddling with a thermal det.

“What was it that Sarge said once? You know, after he got into that fight with Skirata. About us.”

Fixer tilted his head, thinking. “Sarge’s said a lot, Scorch. And gotten into a lot of fights with Skirata.”

Boss snorted from the cockpit as he guided their ship to the hyperlanes, toggling switches to prepare for the jump.

"It was different, I don't know. He never talked like that in front of us," Scorch paused, tapping the metal casing against his thigh. It filled the general berthing like a fog, accompanied by the hum of the ship's engines.

“Oh, right.” Scorch snapped the detonator back on his belt. Maybe he had noticed their fourth looking distinctly nervous about his wandering hands.  
  


“You can’t miss something you never had.”


End file.
